


Train tracks

by goldstraw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldstraw/pseuds/goldstraw
Summary: The moment Brienne realised what she had done was when a pair of startling green eyes bored into her hand, the one holding his coffee cup, and then landed on her face with a what-the-fuck expression she might have had herself had she found her coffee being drunk by some distracted stranger.





	Train tracks

 

The moment Brienne realised what she had done was when a pair of startling green eyes bored into her hand, the one holding _his_ coffee cup, and then landed on her face with a what-the-fuck expression she might have had herself had she found her coffee being drunk by some distracted stranger.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" she blurted out, inexplicably offering the cup back to him.

The sort of smile you put on when trying to avoid the drunk on the night bus appeared on his face. And what a handsome face it was, she realised, which did nothing for the red swamping her skin.

"I'll get you another one—" she said, finally putting the offending article back down on the table.

"No, thanks. The coffee on here is dishwater but I will endeavour to always buy two cups from now on. Just in case you fancy a sip."

His voice was clipped, archly amused and very much enjoying the leverage he had over her obvious guilt and discomfort.

"I'm really sorry. I got caught up in my papers—" she gestured to the laptop in front of her. "Let me reimburse you at least?"

He laughed at that, at her. "My treat, darling. You look like you could do with the caffeine. And the two quid."

She grimaced and looked down, aware that her unkempt, studenty appearance of hair quickly pulled back into a scruffy bun and her hoodie with its frayed cuffs was in complete contrast to his well-fitting suit, cleanly shaven jaw line. She had bags under eyes from weeks of late nights, had stopped trying to make the rest of her face acceptable to others years ago and she was still all blotchy in embarrassment.

“Oh. Thanks a lot,” she muttered sarcastically under her breath. She felt the disappointment catch in the back of her throat. Handsome as hell, but horrible with it. Why did she always expect anything different? Sighing, she tried to get back to typing but now he was watching her. She didn't turn her head, but she could feel the strength of his gaze and it sent a rash of goosebumps across her skin.

She sighed again. "Do you want me to find somewhere else to sit?"

"What are you writing?" he asked, ignoring her question.

She gave him a puzzled look. "My dissertation."

"At which university?” he asked with an interested lilt.

"Oxford. Lincoln College."

He nodded. "Christchurch. Coming back from my ten year reunion."

She wanted to laugh. Of course. The most elite and rich of the Oxford colleges, it was filled with exactly his type - smug gits. Her college was poor and small but also friendly, delightfully pretty and the entirety of her life.

"I'm sure that was splendid," she said, trying to end the conversation with a shrug of a broad shoulder. He clearly came from an entirely different part of society, somewhere where, even had she wanted to, would never have fit in, despite her minor aristocratic background. Titles didn’t matter in this day and age. It was about how much money you had and what circles you moved in. She neither had money nor society connections.

He groaned. "It was a nightmare, and I got very drunk. What's your dissertation on?"

She pursed her lips. "Are you always this nosy?"

"Darling, we've shared a coffee. We're as good as married.” His forceful stare scraped her up and down. “I'm sure the wedding night was _vigorous_. So do tell."

She scoffed a shocked breath. He was different to the usual types who looked at her and giggled, but the effect was the same. Deliberate embarrassment caused at her expense.

She set her jaw. "No."

"No?" He looked bemused at her refusal. She guessed he had very few people in his life who refused his commands. "Spoilsport. Come on. I'm bored. I should be drunk by this time of an evening. Entertain me."

"Entertain you? Are you five years old? Go and bother someone else."

He laughed heartily. God, much to her annoyance he became even better looking when he was deliberately shaking off her objections. This was entirely unfair. She blushed again, went back to studying her fingers as they rested on her keyboard. She tried to think rationally. He was having a conversation with her. Yes, he was arrogant and annoying, but still— it didn’t mean she could be impolite.

“It’s on medieval weaponry. Swords mainly,” she said abruptly.

He shifted next to her, as if taken by surprise that she had responded after all.

“Sounds interesting.”

She risked a glance over, chewing at her lip. He kept his attention on her, waiting for more. “The role of hereditary swords in culture and war.”

He frowned. “Swords like Ice and Oathkeeper?”

She nodded slowly, copying his frown in confusion. There were very few odd bods who knew names like that. “Yes… How do you know that?”

He stretched out his left hand. “Jaime Lannister. Charmed—“

Her own hand was in his – warm, strong, long fingers reaching round her broad palm – before she could think.

“You’re—“ the words seemed unwilling to escape her open mouth.

A flicker of something crossed his face. “You must be the girl who keeps writing ever so politely to my father asking to see his sword.” His eyes twinkled in the light of the unsubtle innuendo, his teeth catching so seductively on his bottom lip that she couldn’t take her eyes off him despite the furious red flooding her face. “You are definitely not the person I was expecting Brienne Tarth to be, but now it all makes sense.”

She snatched back her hand. “I should have recognised the Kingslayer—“ she muttered half to herself.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he retorted quickly. The darkness that she seen in his eyes moments earlier bloomed harshly through his voice.

Her face creased. She knew inner torment when she heard it however much he tried to bury it, and felt unbearably perturbed that she had clearly caused it. She took a breath, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. Except of course, she failed in that too. “Your father isn’t letting me see it. Oathkeeper.”

“Priceless heirloom. Not going to have your grubby mitts over it.”

She opened her mouth in outrage. “I wouldn’t damage it!”

“You look like you could do a fair bit of damage to almost everything.” A sneer had replaced his previous smile.

She jolted him as she sat taller, her blood running hot all of a sudden. “I’m trained in handling precious objects. And not so precious people, like the Lannisters.”

He raised an eyebrow. His storm clouds had gone as quickly as they had come, but something predatory remained and she wished she’d just shut up.

“What would you offer me in return for seeing the sword?”

“Offer you?” She blinked owlishly at him, innocent to his trap, the knowing smile. “Oh, of course, I’ll put you in my acknowledgements—“

“Darling wife, I was thinking of something more… intimate.”

“Wh-what?” she spluttered. This was too much. She would do almost anything to see Oathkeeper, but this was beyond the pale. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, Mr Lannister.”

He looked innocently back at her, but the pull on the corner of his mouth gave him away. “I was thinking of dinner. What were _you_ thinking of, naughty wife? And call me Jaime.”

She wanted to thump him. “Dinner? That was not what you were suggesting! And my name is Brienne,” she added mulishly.

He grinned. “So, what about it? The dinner I mean.”

She quailed. She’d fallen into this trap before and had the scars to prove it.

Jaime caught her hesitation. “Or just a drink. My treat, of course. And then you wouldn’t be a stranger anymore and I’m sure my father will acquiesce to a viewing in that case. In fact, I would insist on it.”

Her teeth pulled at her lip again. “Alright, yes,” she murmured, surprised at herself and nervous beyond belief. It was just about seeing the sword, that’s it. Nothing more, however quickly her heart was beating.

He looked unbearably pleased with himself. “It’s a date.”            

“It’s one drink,” she huffed back, rolling her eyes as he laughed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
